


Pieces of Oz

by knotted_rose



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-11
Updated: 2011-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:18:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knotted_rose/pseuds/knotted_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer nights this far north are short. Even so, once in a while, they still get to him. There is no safe cave to barricade himself in, no expanse to ground him, humanize him. So he fights it. Change means changing back, and it's too easy to get lost up here.</p><p>Oz suspects sometimes that he's lost anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tides

**Author's Note:**

> Post-series, so spoilers for the entire series. Originally posted 15 December 2003.

Oz discovers that the sun sets slowly in the mountains in general, not just in Tibet. Pinks and purples bleed out of the clouds into shaded patches of snow. Pockets soften the knifelike ridges that hold treasures like tiny bluebells, and when Oz is lucky, mice nests and rainwater puddles.

Insects thrive this far above the tree line. Storm systems stretch across the entire sky, unhindered. Oz explores while he can, gets his wind, lets nature thicken his blood. He tells himself that the super-oxygenation keeps him warmer. His shivering when he foregoes a fire tells him otherwise.

Summer nights this far north are short. Even so, once in a while, they still get to him. There is no safe cave to barricade himself in, no expanse to ground him, humanize him. So he fights it. Change means changing back, and it's too easy to get lost up here.

Oz suspects sometimes that he's lost anyway.

He follows the birds out of the peaks, leaving when they do at season's end. It isn't possible to travel across country and stay out of towns. Oz doesn't try. They sprout like flowers along the stem of the railroad he walks and sometimes rides. There's always a part that's considered the bad side of the tracks, where the lights aren't as bright and the liquor's cheaper and the tricks are easier. He still plays the guitar when he can, mostly in pawn shops, someone else's abandoned dreams.

He drifts and thinks of weighted blood.

It doesn't take long to realize that, like the migrating flocks, he's returning home. He remembers warmth and soft felted air and sky delimited by ocean. Monstrous kin and red-headed girls and champions and causes. Doesn't want to go back. But like the tide, feels compelled to traverse along the same path.

He hadn't realized home was now a hole in the ground.

#

"She survived."

Oz doesn't know how long he's stood there, pebble in hand, ready to cast it into the abyss, how many hours and days and millennia the abyss had been staring back.

Xander's voice has deepened. Grief or age or maybe some permanent Hellmouth-induced feature.

"Tara didn't."

Oz feels he must acknowledge that information, freely given, the words obviously cutting Xander's throat. He nods, hopes it's enough. Sniffs, hopefully unobtrusively, but doesn't scent her on Xander.

"She's full-on with the gay now, hanging with a slayer named Kennedy."

Not as sneaky as he'd wanted to be. The acknowledgment of his lack of success breaks his obsession, and with a grimace finds he can finally turn away from the tear in the earth.

The obscenity of the black eye patch shocks him as much--more--than the stream he used to clean himself in, sucks away breath and numbs extremities.

"Huh. Didn't know they still made pirate accessories," Oz says, scrambling, covering, claws inexplicitly closer to the surface than they'd been since that drunk tried to rape a little girl in the boxcar next to his.

Xander shrugs. "Yeah, and all I need is a bird." He cracks up at his own joke. Oz hears undercurrents he can't track, rivers no longer mapped.

"Why not a glass eye?"

"Too easily magicked." Which tells Oz that Xander is still fighting the good fight, still following a cause, while Oz . . . drifts.

"You hungry?" Xander asks.

"Always," Oz admits, truthfully. Xander is wearing an ice green button-down, clean jeans, leather boots, and for once, looks as though he could afford it.

Xander grins, and Oz feels like the 16-year-old he never was.

"Come on then. Let me buy you a burger." Xander easily lays an arm across Oz's shoulders, as if to guide him away. Oz turns it into a hug, suddenly craving contact like air, and Xander's grip metamorphoses into something just as fierce.

He can't cry. Won't. Lives get lost all the time. And he isn't found. Xander is no shore. Oz just stays, still, letting companionship buoy him up for a bit.

Before they leave, he tosses the stone he'd been holding into the pit. It's nothing, a pebble against a raging stream. He can't--doesn't really want--to fill the space in again. Yet, it needed to be done. The symbol, the gesture, the closing.

#

They tell each other traveler's tales over burgers and fries and many bottles of beer, stories of border guards and temples, crazy beach parties in Thailand they'd only heard about but never attended, motorcycle trips across India, dying boats in Laos. So many slayers to find, train, or at any rate, guide. Their calling makes them dangerous, and they keep coming into being. Oz wants to make a joke about how Willow never did things by half, but through their whole conversation, she's just "she," the unnamed ghost hovering above, between them.

Xander watches more than Oz remembered, anticipating slips and quiet, letting them fall or catching them with uncanny grace. The boy's clawing need for attention is still there, the jokes rise unheeded, and occasionally Oz feels schmoozed, but mostly, it's just the kid he knew grown into a man, with a cause that actually uses him, that he isn't failing at.

It doesn't surprise Oz when Xander invites him back to his hotel room to crash for the night, or that the first thing Xander does is direct Oz to the bathroom. Hot water is civilization as far as he's concerned, and he worships at the altar of the shower god as long as he can in good conscious. From the sounds of Xander's journeys, Oz is certain the fellow traveler understands.

More beer, low lights, each lazing on their own bed. Oz wants more, wants to sink into contact as deep and hazy as the ocean floor. Teases Xander into a pillow fight, puppy nipping and tickling. Can't help the happy sigh when he's pinned by the larger man's bulk, can't explain about wolves dying out because they're pack animals and can't change their habits while solitary coyotes can follow washes out of the hills into cities and dine on poodles. Can't express his surprise when Xander's sole eye turns as black as the patch over the other and his lips are captured for a kiss. Doesn't stop the thrust and twist until he's on top, pale white hands contrasting sickly against glowing golden skin. He closes his eyes to hide the differences, moans and sinks further as clothes are shed and Xander opens and Oz is where he wants to be, pushing in, riding waves up and down, passion sweeter than rainwater, his bare ribs pillowed by meat and muscle and slicked with sweat. Bobbing laughter chases after him, joy he'd forgotten about with johns and mere survival. Climax of sunburst behind his eyes, happy kisses, a tangle of legs. Cuddling, letting himself rest on skin not weathered or paper-thin as his own, laying his cheek against a healthy heartbeat, maybe hoping some of it--this, life, direction, whatever--will soak in through osmosis.

He's gone in the morning. Knows it won't be a problem. Xander has to go too. Doesn't know why Xander came back, still doesn't know who the other man lost. Revisits the hometown pit and drops in another stone. Wishes his blood were still thick, that it could filter smog and fill the holes in his heart.

He leaves, but now he knows he'll return, come crashing against these rocks again, throw more pebbles against the tide.


	2. Tides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trap surprises Oz. Maybe he wasn't paying attention--he should have smelled the guns and metal and been more wary. Or maybe he wanted to get caught, wrestled back into that other shape. He planted his left foot square in the center of it, hidden by pseudo foliage, and now it's too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-series, so spoilers for the entire series. Originally posted to my LJ 4 January 2004.

The trap surprises Oz. Maybe he wasn't paying attention--he should have smelled the guns and metal and been more wary. Or maybe he wanted to get caught, wrestled back into that other shape. He planted his left foot square in the center of it, hidden by pseudo foliage, and now it's too late.

He wishes his reaction could be like the ones made by cartoon characters, with great iron teeth hanging off one leg while he hops around the clearing, howling, on the other. It's nothing like that though. There's blood and pain and tears and falling to the ground and he's just damn lucky the thing didn't snap his ankle.

Scent in the air of, of, something, had been telling him to move quickly all morning, get out of the rocks and pines and wind-twisted oaks and into a town. That muffled voice grows desperate now. He pries the trap loose, cursing stupid hunters because he knows traps this big are illegal in this state and his hind brain is screaming that he must hurry when he cuts his fingers on jagged edges and it's all too much and carmine swims up over his eyes and he fights/welcomes the change and the animal and the driving rage against the thing that hurt him. Pulls it apart with hands that are good for clawing, not for holding, thumbs there but the human-ape long forgotten. Bends it until the hinges ping and snap and it still isn't enough and licks at the blood pooled there and rips his tongue and howls and tears at the thing some more, longing for a whimper or a whiff of fear but what hurt him comes from them and him that part of himself that will not let him run and rend and hunt. So he throws the thing hard and far into the bush knowing that he could find it again but they won't be able to because they can't scent his blood and he remembers the blood and licks at his wounded leg and whimpers and comforts himself some.

He knows he needs to go, this clearing isn't safe--it reeks of them and the hard gray places he hates. He also must be clever and mask his trail, make his way to a safe cave before the white cold comes, doesn't want to hide behind him but he has to run and he can't and the coaxing soothing chanting voice surrounds him and he growls and shakes and everything condenses into untold hurts as claws slam back into hands and fangs into head and the pain in his ankle is echoing and repeating and Oz gasps and drops onto the ground and isn't sure he can move, though he wants to. Needs to. Must.

The change helped heal the wound, as Oz knew it would, though he hates admitting it to himself. He examines the shadows, gauging how long he was gone, how long the wolf was free. Not too long. But not long enough--Oz finds the beast more docile after a longer run. Caged again, he can't stop its roaming in his brain, pain gnawing at the bars, at his leg, at his lungs.

Then the other scent, the one that drove him since dawn, comes floating back. Recognition finally dapples its surface.

Snow. And soon.

#

Everything in the Wyoming three-stoplight town closes up early because of the storm: bars, restaurants, hotels. He'd found his trick, itinerate salesman, but not a place to sleep once he'd been dismissed. While retracing his steps back to the hotel lobby, a familiar scent tugs at his brain. Follows it to a different door.

Knocks.

Xander throws it open, the familial growl of "What?" dying on his lips. He's not covered himself, either his chest or his eye, letting his disturber see all.

Oz refuses to be sucked in, shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, says, "Hey."

With a nod, Xander steps to one side, gesturing for Oz to enter without making a formal invitation. Oz nods at the Hellmouth courtesy and limps in.

The overhead light shatters the darkness of the room. Oz blinks, trying to adjust. New place. New smells.

Same Xander.

"Sit," he commands, gesturing toward the bed. Xander squats down, takes Oz's damaged leg in one hand, fingers gently tracing the pattern of teeth still showcased by Oz's fair skin. "Stay," he orders next as he gets up and walks toward his bag.

Oz can't help but laugh. One night together, months and seasons ago, and now Xander thinks he's domesticated? "Woof," Oz replies.

"Is that it? Was this some kind of wolf thing?" the young man asks, white container in hand. Smell of wild cherries and sage and _her_ flood the room when he opens it. Slips off Oz's sockless shoe and smears orange-yellow paste on the wound.

Oz wants to refuse, but the gesture is without pity or scorn, argument or offer. Xander gives. Oz is cornered and must receive. Xander's wave of kindness drenches Oz's shore, blessing and overwhelming with abundance.

Heat spreads up his leg, across his sole, makes him twitch. Xander grabs his calf, fingers neatly wrapping all the way around the muscle, holds him still, keeps rubbing. Looks up now. Does he expect an answer? Gratitude? Who thanks the rain?

The ruined eye is black-bruise colored, with scaly skin edging it, creeping across the center of it, vein-red vines twisting through it, grabbing at him. Oz shakes his head to break free of it. "Naw. Not a wolf thing. Just careless. And you?"

He doesn't know what happened, not the details. Assumes it was part of the last days of battle. Unsure he really wants to know more.

Xander laughs and peers at him and the cunning that Oz sees calls to the cage inside him and he finds he's bending forward like a sapling in a gale. "You, careless?" is all Xander asks before the wind hits him too and they lean into each other and lips meet lips and there isn't a blessing or curse between them anymore. Xander surges up then follows Oz down back onto the bed and the beeswax sticky hand is pushing up his shirt and heat radiates from finger-tracks swiped across his belly and he wiggles and his skin jitters. Xander pulls back and raises the magic hand, plays an arpeggio with his fingers and asks, "More?"

Oz nods, imagined tingling already shooting across his skin and he has to feel it, will wonder if he doesn't and Xander undoes his jeans with the clean hand, not wasting the dirty hand and Oz gasps when his cock is ensnared and the heat cloaks it instantly and pushes through channels and tunnels and a delta of cannels he didn't know existed around and through his dick and he gasps again into Xander's mouth as a hand twists and pulls on him expertly bringing him closer faster harder than he should be and the unexpected keeps happening when the matching wet tongue leaves the safe cavern of his mouth and climbs over his face, cheeks, eyes, licking them clear bathing them warm then cool and another hand tugs his face around and teeth in his neck and he wants to ask why the throat what does it mean to his friend and where are the lights in the dark places of both of Xander's eyes when a final twist and push and moan and he's riding out the storm on top of cyclone winds spinning him around while the heat radiates out and down and over.

The laughter remains and the remembered joy and Oz is ambushed again because he wants to stay but he doesn't, not where invisible bars mar his skin with cold or even the golden rule. Xander doesn't seem to notice the stillness in his partner--or maybe he does and doesn't care--just asks, "You back?" with a kiss and a lick and a promise that Oz can't quite hear.

He reaches out to do his duty though, hand sneaking into Xander's black boxers, rescuing his cock. Oz starts his work, the echoes of snow fences still rattling in his ear, when he's grabbed and kissed again and another hand joins his and the quiet is whipped away as groans zephyr in and Oz is seen by an eye and a hole and it isn't just anyone doing this anymore but him even though only half can be seen it doesn't matter because that's all he wants to be noticed.

The bites continue though, and Oz wonders which face his partner watches.

Xander comes with an exclamation that Oz can't decipher, trail leading to unknown caves. After a sigh and a stretch Xander gets them both off the bed and he purposefully tickles Oz as he strips him and dumps him into the shower, washing dirty hands clean and setting unhealed skin buzzing. Oz doesn't hide his bones or thin skin and Xander licks at unknown bruises along his hip from where he'd fallen that morning. Dried off and anointed once more, every hurt covered and toasted with cherries and Xander holds him and suddenly they're both crying from menthol warmth that stings as it repairs and rebuilds bars and walls and cages.

#

Wind still carries snow the next morning. Passes are closed. The den they've made isn't safe from all storms though. Xander whines to go out, and they travel to food, to the bookstore, to the Salvation Army and Oz suddenly has more than his backpack will hold.

Giving. Receding.

Unending heartbreak from the radio proceeds to quiet, panes bouncing from gusts as constant as the wash of cars along a California freeway. Stories creep in between the turned pages, not the big adventures they'd shared last time but the little ones, of holding a seven-year-old's hand as streets are negotiated, listening to an old man's story about oranges, of a dog with dreadlocks who sleeps in an abandoned yard and reminds Xander of a drunken soldier. Dinner and beer and talk like islands surrounded by silence. It isn't the eye of the hurricane--there is no more erupting to do. They pile together on the bed later, happy sighs and wiggles accompanied with chaste kisses and puppy licks and Oz dreams of both harbors and jails.

Come morning the storm is broken, white bones piled high. Oz leaves half the clothes but still takes the warmest things, slipping through the bars he always carries with him. Gets a ride with a trucker, back up into the hills, into the wilderness. The cold won't last forever. And Oz wants to be there when the green creeps back in.


	3. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smithy isn't always dark, with the metal-melting fire the only light. The forge itself isn't even that big--it only takes up a corner of the workshop. Oz still pictures it that way though, particularly as fall approaches and mountain winds try to bluster their way into any cracks they can find in the old wooden building. Less day, more night, and Oz finds himself turning toward any brilliance he can find, like a morning glory twisting on a string.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-series, so spoilers. Originally posted on my LJ 14 January 2004

Winter wraps his bones, cold like stars in the night sky, making them ache. Wet felt lines his lungs. Oz shivers all the time, even as he sweats, but he doesn't stop, doesn't stumble from his path, doesn't cry. Stays close to the rail, the straw in the boxcar a poor den. He can't get caught, brought to a small town jail, or even pay a small town fee. He must make it to a city, somewhere with a free clinic, where blood samples aren't required and doctors are too harried and hassled to ask too many questions or pay attention to half-truths and he can stay under the wire out of the trap, keep to his own cage.

After thirty-two hours of travel he finally gets to where he needs to go. Doesn't know the name of the town but recognizes the dirt in the air--too many humans and factories and houses and automobiles crowded together, not enough mountain winds twisting and scouring everything clean. Walks slowly into town, sitting down on the side of the road when darkness creeps into the edges of his vision. He thought it would be better here, at a lower altitude. He was wrong.

Almost wishes he could always be this warm, but even in his current condition knows with Hellmouth-acuity that you don't make wishes. Ever.

The clinic is easy to find after half-a-dozen enquiries. It stinks worse than it looks. Accumulated sickness mingles with the grout in the dirty floor tile, fills the holes of the stained and spongy drop ceiling, coats the plastic and faded posters hanging on the walls. Oz waits the required hours for his turn, imagining he can see the hair growing on the backs of his hands. Knows that it's a dangerous game--to picture only human hair below his knuckles, on his forearm. The rattle of bars deep inside him tell him when he's gone too far and he has to back up. It keeps him upright, conscious.

He rises slowly when he's called, not because of the bone-deep weariness he can't seem to shake, but because he momentarily doesn't remember giving them his real name.

Thermometer confirms the 104 degree fever. Cold stethoscope on his burning skin reports his drowning lungs.

He wants to take the drugs and go. Tries to push the thoughts and words through his swaddled limbs. Can't convince anyone though, even his own traitorous feet.

Dreams fill him in his thin bed, start with a thick night sky dropping down, then wrapping and cooling his skin, dark and soft with tickling pinpricks where the stars have slipped away to go dancing. The campfire escapes its ring and weaves between the pines just beyond the granite and lichen rocks. He has to circle around a bottomless seaweed-green lake to get to a child's cutout of a pink heart that rests on its point, wide and free, with black rents clawed down its right side.

Oz throws stones and dirt and water at the heart, trying to fill the holes, but to no avail. It isn't until he steps closer that he realizes that while they're gouges, they're also furrows, not to be covered over, but maybe used for growing something new.

The fire music takes him over and he goes to dance. A star puts its hands in his, and he swings it into one of the long streaks in the heart, where it settles after shifting and turning a few times.

He doesn't really notice that the star only has one eye.

#

Oz feels good enough after two days of solid bed-rest to talk the clinic workers into releasing him on his own recognizance. The antibiotics upset his stomach, turn his stool green, and his vision still darkens when he stands up after tying his shoes, but he cannot stay in this place. The winds sing to him as they bounce off the corners of the buildings. Slivers of clear blue sky peaking between fingers of clouds echo his calm. He is going back to the wilds. This time he has the start of a plan, not a treasure map, but the key to a box that has instructions on where he might find one.

He thinks he wants to look for a farm or a croft, some place where he can rest. Get well. Live with the seasons, both inside and out, instead of migrating and moving, surge and recede, all the time. Grow strong. Stronger.

Plant some stars.

#

Xander doesn't arrive at the clinic until after Oz has been gone for more than four hours, only his name left behind.

#

Oz remembers being sick, remembers the almost-wish about being warm and sweaty all the time.

Finds that even without actually saying the words, he has made it come true, at least while he's at work.

The smithy isn't always dark, with the metal-melting fire the only light. The forge itself isn't even that big--it only takes up a corner of the workshop. Oz still pictures it that way though, particularly as fall approaches and mountain winds try to bluster their way into any cracks they can find in the old wooden building. Less day, more night, and Oz finds himself turning toward any brilliance he can find, like a morning glory twisting on a string.

Oz spends hours trimming and deburing finishings when he first arrives, watching the master smith shape iron, weld metal and wheedle contracts. The bellows on the forge are automated, as is the coal chute, killing that Dickensian stereotype as well. Oz has a good eye though, measures accurately, isn't afraid when electric balls of sparks roll down his pants and stick in his shoes. The fit press and automated hammer do much of the physical labor. Still, the blacksmith is old fashioned, and has a few Internet customers who pay good money for "all handmade." He learns that Oz is much stronger than he looks when there's a problem with the leg vice and he steps in to hold a piece.

Moonrise isn't closer up in the mountains--but the thin air makes it seem that way sometimes. Oz works late at the forge, pounding iron when it becomes too much. Other nights, he marvels at the swath the Milkyway cuts across the sky when he stands, shivering, fighting, unable to sleep or escape or trust in cages.

Curses abound as the holidays approach. The master smith hates the popular curved Elvin blades that a distributor has talked him into trying. He isn't a bladesmith, but he teaches himself, and Oz, and soon learns that his apprentice has an affinity for weapons as well.

The cities and towns clustered in the valleys between the mountains hold craft shows during the holidays. Normally the smith goes alone, but this year, he brings Oz with him.

Culture shock wraps thick fingers around Oz and shakes him at odd times. The press of so many people and choices overload his senses, fill eyes and ears and nose until he’s over stimulated and exhausted at the same time. Realizes how quiet the forge isn't, even without a radio, with the hissing and hammering and banging, when the traffic noise doesn't bother him. Hears music not of his own making for the first time in months: It makes his calloused and hardened hands itch. Passes phone booths every day and thinks about calling someone. Who, he doesn't know. Or even if he might have an idea, doesn't know how to reach Xander.

Spends time as the dark winter nights close in planning a blade. Learns old weaving techniques for wrapping the pommel. Envisions the stones he needs, then barters for them, in the spring.

Oz hasn't stayed in one place for more than a single season for a very, very long time. Has watched birds hatch their chicks, or make their nests, or empty them, but not the whole process, from beginning to end. It completes him, more than finishing a project.

Wild irises mingle with the long grass in the yard. They add wild onions to their stews. Spring also means human nesting time, and house finishings take up most of their trade for a while.

Nights are sometimes harder, sometimes easier, with the promise of softer winds and warmer sun in the morning. He watches the stars so often that he knows the steps of their dance, how they circle and wheel.

Summer time, and the forge seems to be going constantly. More stock for winter. More fireplace implements and knickknacks and artsy holders for magazines or wood.

Oz trades with others online for the meteorite ingots he needs to melt for his blade. It's to be handmade, hammered out on the weighted anvil. He adds a piece of drop-metal to the end of the pommel, tear-shaped with a sharp point, hardened edges.

The master smith teases Oz about the finished product. How it's too long for someone his height.

Oz never said he made it for himself.

Fall and the season is slow. There is time for polishing and braiding the pommel and collaborating with a leather worker for the sheath.

Cold creeps in without warning, the winds dropping in temperature without changing intensity or frequency. Water has to be broken if left outside. The path from the farmhouse to the smithy stays clear of snow as the grasses brown and grow brittle. Skies remain that impossible blue, with only a few clouds dangling on the bones of the trees.

Craft fairs are boring. Oz brings his guitar this time, busks between customers.

Finally, the scent that he's been waiting for arrives. The one he must follow. He takes the blade, fills his backpack. Leaves his guitar.

Different hotel, different time--earlier in the evening--when Oz runs the trail to the ground.

Same Xander. Dressed this time when he answers the door, shirt as blue as mid-morning sky, eye properly concealed. Same non-formal invite into the room before Xander pulls Oz into a hug. Long. Warm. Encasing.

"Missed you."

Oz stiffens, pulls back, unsure how to respond. He’s no longer the earth in a drought, needing rain.

"At the clinic. Last year. When you were sick."

"Ah." Understanding. No disappointment. No relief. Or maybe a combination of both.

"Wait, how did you know I was there?"

Xander grins. "Watchers. You know. They watch. Particularly hospitals and clinics with all the potential slayers around."

"Ah." There doesn't seem to be anything else to say. Did Xander set them watching? Or did they do that on their own?

"You hungry?" Xander asks.

"Always," Oz replies, the litany comforting and repetitive, sliding easily along old grooves.

Their late night dinner is more appetizers and desserts, spiked coffees and straight port. Oz listens to Xander's travels, his rambling days oddly synchronous with his babble now. Oz's tales are of listening to the trees talk at sunrise, watching tiny pink blossoms clutch wind-scoured rock, measuring how iron sings when quenched after heating.

Back at the hotel, Oz presents Xander with the blade. The edge is sharp, the runnels practical, cut deep. The smith may have laughed, but Oz knows the blade will see use.

Two stones are wrapped into the pommel, jade and obsidian--like a single eye from each of them, green and black. They don't have any power. The "witches" who live near the smithy are new-age, not real, and Oz would never insult her by having them bless anything for him.

Oz still hopes that the blade will keep Xander safe, be an extra eye when he needs one.

A thank-you kiss turns into three, a dozen, more. Oz traces the new scars on Xander's torso, mainly on his blind side. Doesn't say anything. Xander doesn't speak of Oz's health, skin still pale but thicker, covering bones better. Joy bubbles up in them simultaneously, not as a chaser. Rolling and tumbling like rocks in a wave they twist and wrestle, up and down, and kiss and laugh and lick and tickle and nibble.

There's a pause, a stillness in the sea, after clothes are gone and erections grasped and both are panting, when Oz is on his back and Xander is leaning on his side next to him, and the question hangs between them like Xander's hand. And Oz finds that though he's, well, more grounded, he's still no field to be plowed and pushes Xander who falls on his back lightly and open, easy and free. Oz follows him over and kisses him hard, tongue questing for dominance, forgiveness, friendship, lust. Then he's seeking more heat, more tightness, more comfort and is riding again in that place where the cold night stars can't find him and the sparks behind his eyes flash with warmth and cyclone winds spin the bed around and laughter changes to shouting as they both come out of the heavens and back down to earth.

Lazy slow kisses and now Oz strips Xander all the way, removes the patch and stares into the hole that pebbles and bars and steel won't fill and Xander lets him look and the abyss doesn't stare back. Oz has no words. Neither does Xander. They pull each other to the shower, worship skin and hot water and the laughter comes back with soapy tickling and hugs and sighs.

They pile together on the bed as usual, no tears between them, just warmth and skin and quilted sleep that's worn and patched in places, unfinished edges and iron cages and endless maps with untranslatable directions to treasure in others.

In the morning, Oz remains.

Xander and the blade are gone.

{end} 


	4. Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oz doesn't wait for his friend to come across the lawn, runs to meet him instead. As the sun has been peaking through the clouds all morning, he doesn't wait for Hellmouth-formalities, just grabs Xander and hugs him. Loosens his grip almost immediately when he scents bandages and antiseptic and realizes that Xander is hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post series, so spoilers. Originally posted to my LJ 9 February 2004. Officially the end of the series, but there came another couple of one-offs after this.

Strong spring winds string the clouds out across the entire sky, wispy and thin, blanching the underlying blue. Oz laughs as chickadees play at being hummingbirds, the gusts strong enough to let them hover. He is tending the garden he keeps for himself and the master smith that morning. Mostly it's practical, root vegetables and tomatoes in pots that can easily be carried inside when the weather plays tricks. But a portion is dedicated to the brightest blossoms he can coax into growing at this altitude: poppy reds and burning-sky oranges and cerulean starbursts.

He's also planted a contorted Hawthorn outside his window. Falls of yellow flowers have just budded on it. The branches twist and Oz spends hours imagining the figures they make as the winds push them into new shapes.

When the wind shifts for the first time that morning and a familiar scent comes whipping around the corner of the workshop Oz is glad he's outside. That he's the first to see Xander. That he's the first person Xander sees.

Oz doesn't wait for his friend to come across the lawn, runs to meet him instead. As the sun has been peaking through the clouds all morning, he doesn't wait for Hellmouth-formalities, just grabs Xander and hugs him. Loosens his grip almost immediately when he scents bandages and antiseptic and realizes that Xander is hurt.

#

"Angelus," Oz repeats.

Xander nods, pulling fresh gauze out of his bag. He's been traveling for almost 48 hours straight and everything needs changing.

"He's Angel again." Xander pauses, snorts. "In control, as much as he ever is."

Now Oz nods, unsure what to say. Hears hurt that doesn't come from broken ribs or fingers or scoured skin. Helps Xander into the shower, doesn't care what the smith says, thinks. Baths new scars with gentle hands and kind soap and kisses. Holds Xander as he sways, exhaustion seeping from his soul.

Oz applies ointments that he doesn't recognize, handmade unguents that sting and soothe at the same time. Rewraps ribs. Though he isn't tired, still crawls into bed with his friend. Comforts him while he sleeps, the past creeping into the present, Xander's whimpers tearing at his own hide. Forces claws down again and again. His friend has no need of a monster.

A monster who is too late.

Falls asleep himself, though he doesn't realize it until soft nips along his throat wake him up. Xander's hair is tangled more than the mistletoe in the juniper out front. Oz tugs on it, forces a shiny eye and a scabbed hole to look at him.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," comes the easy reply. The kiss that follows is soft and sleepy and calm. Not a beginning. Not an end. Just is.

They've never done this before. Kisses are posts along the road to something else, not a destination in and of themselves. Oz tries to clutch and move and stroke but Xander stops him, holds arms down with no pressure and resumes kissing. Oz lets himself fall into the present, pay attention to lips and a soft tongue and pause and kiss again.

Eventually Xander's taste changes--the faint flavor of come floats in--and Oz finally gets it. Xander needs time. Time to adjust to excitement without pressure. Time to accept kisses that come with friendship and not pain. Time to find himself, who he is, who he can be, when he's in lust again.

Oz explores Xander even more leisurely now, touching skin lightly without tickling or pain. The laughter is missing. Something akin to joy still floats between them though, as well as wonder. Oz doesn't know how long it's been since Xander has been able to feel excited without fear or memories. Suspects it's been a while.

Questing fingers exploring his own body let him know when it's alright to do more. He strokes Xander's penis, letting the other man lead the dance, follows patterns and speed and tightness. He wants to cheat, wants to bring Xander off first, but is suddenly afraid that was part of the torment, being brought off by your enemy, unable to control yourself.

Waits and rides the tides and unseen winds that blow through the room and lets the storm take him and doesn't stifle a single moan, lets all his delight shine through. Comes huffing and quiet, pushing himself through the spark hole, into darkness and light. Knows he falters in his own grip.

Is glad to realize that was partly the point.

Finally returns and kisses Xander and speeds up. Xander pulls back to watch his face, dark eye unblinking, making sure of his partner, seeing Oz, no one else. Taking no chance of another's face being superimposed. The seeing grows cloudy quickly, and Xander comes with a cry, mouth panting and open, as if to scream.

Moisture gathers around the corner of Xander's eye. He doesn't acknowledge it, but wipes it away, then lays back as Oz cleans up their accumulated mess. Kisses Oz again. Single word, "Thanks," then curls back up to sleep.

Xander doesn't dream again the whole afternoon while Oz watches and deburrs metal and thinks of cages.

#

In spite of his injuries, Xander's hands are still strong and polishing is something a one-eyed man can do easily enough. The master smith is strangely quiet, only teases Xander sometimes, when he seems most able to take it. Xander responds with quiet as well. It takes Oz by surprise. Doesn't learn until much later about the smith's younger brother and his time in a Vietnam POW camp.

Spring winds warm to summer zephyrs, the thin atmosphere offering little protection from the sun. Xander's skin turns golden again in the light. He lets Oz cut his hair, though he bitches about the result for two weeks afterward. Laughs out loud for the first time when Oz pulls him into one of the streams that runs about two miles from the smithy, and gasps and splashes water and Oz sees that his friend has forgotten, at least for while. Plays horrible music on the experimental iron flute the smith made, out of tune with Oz's guitar and the smith's tenor, but doesn't seem to mind. Sings softly other times, doodling words and notes.

Follows Oz at night sometimes, when he goes out to watch the stars. The wolf hasn't been let out since Xander has been there, which makes it both harder and easier.

The wolf is always there. Oz doesn't hide it. Doesn't advertise it either.

They give each other hand jobs, and blow jobs after a while, but no penetration. Oz listens when Xander talks, when he needs to talk, but doesn't ask questions. Holds him when he hurts too much and the tears leak out. Pounds iron flat and thin afterwards.

"It's alright," Xander says one night as they lay piled together like puppies, sides still sore from laughter that flowed in when Oz tickled and Xander had tickled back and sex had swept them up and Oz had almost pushed, almost tried seeking heat and goodness and opening Xander up watching him blossom but Oz didn't, pulled back, used hands on dick and teeth in neck instead.

"Hmm?" Oz asks, cheek and temple and jaw still pillowed on Xander's chest where breath comes more freely now. Oz tells himself it's because Xander is used to the altitude now, but knows it's also because the fear that had caged Xander is growing thinner bars.

Xander nips at him, pushes him back and bites again, harder. Always the throat, Oz realizes again.

"T-t-the wolf. Sometimes it seems like you need it here."

Oz shivers as cool air hits wet bite marks. Xander nibbles, raising more goose-flesh. Oz shakes his head, doesn't want to explain. Xander worries the skin down further along his shoulder, waits.

When did Xander get so good at asking questions in silence?

"It isn't like a vampire game face. I can't bring out the wolf then pull him back. I have . . . less control than that."

"I won't be safe." The truth lies blandly between them.

"Probably." Oz doesn't want to acknowledge it. Won't lie though.

#

There are no monsters--no other monsters--on the mountain. Still, the next night, Xander pulls out the blade that Oz made for him and sharpens it. Oz sits in the corner of their room, fingers finding easy chords and progressions, sketching scales. The ease with which Xander uses the whet stone tells Oz how frequently Xander did this, sat someplace, alone and quiet, and worked the blade. He's glad that his gift is appreciated. Can't wish away the necessity of razor-edged steel in his friend's life. Isn't sure he wants to.

The pommel is battered, the sharpness of the teardrop end pounded away.

"Do you want me to fix that for you?" Oz offers.

Xander ponders. "Maybe later," he says, fingering the battered piece. "It was useful," he adds before he goes back to his work, his meditation.

Oz shivers. He hadn't envisioned this, Xander's bond with the blade, and yet at the same time it brings a wash of déjà vu that he can't shake.

"You okay?"

A smile creeps across Oz's face. Xander isn't officially a watcher, but he still sees, knows, acts as the heart. It's just one of the adult things that has blossomed from the boy.

"Yeah."

After more notes drift between them, Xander speaks again.

"I have something for you." He puts down the blade and goes back to his bag, digging in the recesses, pulling out a strip of leather.

It's a bracelet. The braid in the leather follows the same pattern Oz did around the pommel of Xander's blade. The same types of stones, obsidian and jade, are woven into it.

"Wow man. Thanks." Oz holds out his wrist and lets it be bound. He fingers the thick leather, sniffs it. Only now that he's wearing it, now that it's ends are tied, does he smell the magic. He raises his head and looks at Xander.

"I had them put an enchantment on it so it wouldn't catch fire. From the sparks and the forge and all." He ducks his head. Oz can't help but smile. Xander had had images of huge fires and molten iron running all the time before he'd actually seen the workshop as well.

"Thanks." Oz leans forward for a kiss. The sudden aggressiveness of Xander's response surprises him. He's on his back on the bed almost before he realizes it, underneath the warm weight of his friend, being ground against, upon. A tongue is thrust into his mouth in time with rhythmically dipping hips. His shirt is shoved up and ripped from him with barely a pause. Slag-hot hands pull at his pants. He tries to help but gives up quickly.

Oz is naked and Xander is shoving down his own pants before he starts to suspect what this is actually about. He tries to push back, push up, roll, but there's a desperation here that he hasn't felt before. A fright that doesn't belong. Fighting and memories deluging them like a shower of stones, sharp and stinging.

With a hard forearm across Xander's throat, Oz finally pushes Xander away. "Air needed here," Oz says. A glazed eye stares back at him blindly for a second, still struggling to reconnect, rejoin, reestablish contact.

Three panting breaths later Xander crumbles and rolls to the side, crying and shaking. Oz folds up behind him, stroking cheeks and running his palm down Xander's chest, comforting and careful, keeping his rapidly diminishing erection away from his friend's bare butt.

"It's okay--" Oz starts to say.

"It's not." Xander rocks in time with the words. "It's not, it's not, it's not."

"It's snot?" Oz asks, nipping at Xander's neck hard enough to make him wince, desperate to do anything to bring his friend out of this. "We got stuff for that you know. Called Kleenex."

The burbling laugh that follows seems equally threaded with tears, but it's a start. Oz grabs a couple tissues from the box on the nightstand and hands them to Xander. "See? Not making this up."

Another almost laugh. Xander sits up and Oz holds on, not letting go for an instant while Xander dries his eyes and blows his nose.

Xander lays back down, this time with Oz pillowed on him, as usual, and they're quiet again.

"I'm sorry," Xander finally says.

"I know. And I'm sorry too. For what happened to you."

Xander nods, rubbing his chin in Oz's hair.

There isn't anything else Oz can do. Nothing that can be said. Xander has to conquer his own monsters. Conquering Oz won't help.

#

It's late the night it does happen. Xander wakes Oz up with sharp, scared kisses. His scent is half arousal, half fear.

"Please. Now," is all he says.

Oz allows Xander's actions to convince him when Xander covers Oz's cock in a condom and slick. Shares it on his own fingers, then starts to prepare his friend. Slower than a half-thawed stream, Oz presses in one finger, then two. There's a clench of fear as each approaches, fright that Oz jerks away with hard pulls on Xander's cock. They don't kiss. Xander wantsneedsmust see Oz, as much as Oz wants to watch his friend blossom in this type of passion again.

With strokes and twisting fingers and timing as natural as hammer blows Oz gets Xander to that clutching panting swirling point, and Oz wonders if this is enough, if he should just keep going, push Xander over the edge like this, take it one step at a time, when Xander says again, "Now."

So Oz pulls his fingers out and positions himself and pushes and it's what he remembered that tightness and goodness and rocking breath pillowing his own belly and Xander's eye opening wide and wider as he's breached and opened and filled. Light seems to spill from both of them as Oz goes faster and twitches and mines deep veins and finally finds stars and gasping laughter and edges and earthquake tumbling shakes and groans as one after another they find the peak and rush back down.

There are no tears afterward. No talk or thanks. Just cleanup and stacking back together fitting of pieces never really lost and maps of kisses followed by sleep and the mere outlines of dreams.

And in the morning they are both still there.

#

"Tell me about it."

Oz doesn't need to ask about what--it's always about the monster he carries inside him that Xander used to forget about, that Oz never did. The one that Xander seeks to find now.

"It isn't like a switch, on and off. Or like a pendulum, one extreme to the other."

These words are easy, describing what the wolf isn't.

"It's, it's, like . . . " Oz pauses, thinks, but he can't say it.

The wolf is like a mountain, always inside him, always present, every time he looks. Sometimes close, sometimes far out on the horizon. Sometimes he's on it and sometimes he's under it and sometimes it encloses him. It's impossible to go around, arduous to climb over. It has secret hidden places that he'll spend his life exploring, as well as open areas where he's overcome with wildness. And now Oz has roots that start at the peak and burrow through eons of stone to the base. He and the mountain walk as one.

Rattling bars slip into his thoughts.

"It's here."

Oz nods, unsurprised that Xander knows him well enough to notice when the wolf is closer to the surface. It won't slip free, not now, not ever. Up here at the smithy it isn't necessary. The winds carry his howls and stir his skin without the need for fur and claws. Stars and tidal moon dance in his thoughts and hunt in his stead.

"Do you need to--" Xander starts.

"No." Oz can reply to that question quickly.

"What about want to?"

Never an answer to that.

Xander hefts his sword, lets himself out of the room. Oz listens to him barricade himself in the forge for the night.

Takes himself to the far side of the mountain before he lets the wolf run free.

#

Seasons shift and this fall brings rain. Mud clogs everything--machinery, noses, boots, clothes. They live too far from any of the streams to worry about flooding, but some of their neighbors aren't so lucky. The old farmhouse fills slowly, the old couple who have been up there since The Depression, the faux witches, the three idealistic guys from the city who figure that everything they need for running a farm can be found in books or on the Internet.

Oz and Xander keep busy, helping with hauling and heating and drying and cooking and running the forge and even entertaining some nights with guitar and soft singing. They manage to keep their room, so it's them alone in the late evenings. The sex leaves them breathless, not just from passion but from joy and tickling and silliness that lets them stretch from boyhood to manhood and back again, lets them resettle into skin and senses. No routine, not even seasons or mountain days are the same. But routes taken and traversed just the same, tides waxing and waning.

When the first snow drifts down Xander stands in the middle of the yard, arms out. Flakes catch on his lashes, on long curls, and dusts his shoulders. Lands in stark contrast to the patch, the void that even Xander defines himself by less.

That night they start training, mock fights, Oz still pulling back his strength, letting the other man work up to it, though days shaping metal haven’t left him weak. They run in the day, when they can take a break from the forge, play tag up and down hills. Even try a little bouldering, building balance as well as strength.

Xander quickly regains, and then supersedes what he had before. Oz tells him it's the mountain. Xander claims it's the air.

But Oz knows he's right. Rocks glitter under the most recent layer of snow, half hidden in the yellowing afternoon air. Tufts of dried grass poke between them, demark the decay of erosion, the constant plant battles to turn stone to soil. They're up close to the tree line that afternoon. The junipers that live here are bent over, molded by constant winds. The few birds are big, able to hold their own against the currents.

Xander loses his way quickly in such an alien landscape, familiar markers stripped away--nothing to hold him back. Oz no longer does. He carries the mountain within him.

The neighbors gather together for dinner the week before Xander goes. They gift him as they best can, with homemade venison jerky, blessed stones and dried apples. Oz has fixed the teardrop on the end of the sword's pommel, as well as collaborated with the smith on a small matching boot knife.

The evening ends early and Oz and Xander go out to watch the stars. Xander makes up stories about their paths, how this one is that one's rejected lover, how that third one over there is really an alien spy plane, how The Empire uses the worlds on another for their secret sex camps. They laugh and tickle and nip like pups before they race each other to their room.

Kisses turn to passion and cold noses and cheeks warm soon, pressed against warmer skin. They continue to wrestle and soon are naked and hands are busy and mouths and Xander asks. Clear-eyed and happy with either answer and no need but want.

So this time? Oz says yes.

Rolls onto his back, belly up, legs spread. It's been years and Xander is gentle at first. Then harder, first with fingers, then with cock, spearing him, gutting him with kisses, fisting him with his eye, holding his cock and pulling hard in time with the stutterharsh rhythm of Xander's own hips.

There are teeth in his neck and growling that Xander can't hold back, his own monster and fears manifest. And Oz pulls back and reciprocates bites until Xander's breath is panting faster than when they're running and shivershakes quake through his shoulders and Xander is shouting and crying but holding back now remembering Oz and begging with eye and revealed hole to be whole and alright and Oz cups his cheek with a kiss and says that it is.

Then they're both spinning up and down through caves and along streams that bump and bubble and Xander lets go, lets go of remembered pain and ones he never loved and ever loved and more tears come but so does a laugh, a shout, a release, and Oz floats along for the ride, grey as clouds on the inside wrapped around cages and boulders and eons but light and fleeting as a sunrise outside and lets himself come as well.

More tears and laughter and quiet petting follow as they come back to themselves, the space where they are, where they live. They clean up and sleep and dream wrapped in knowing and carrying what they need.

Xander leaves after a few more days. Oz stays on the mountain, knowing his friend will return, in times of success as well as sorrow, or just to say hello. His is the true path of the tides.

While Oz cherishes and lives among the bones of the earth.

{end}


	5. Status Quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oz nods. Waits. In the morning Xander will go back down the mountain, back to the good fight. Healed and hale and healthy as Oz and the empty sky and clear water and dancing stars can make him. Back to watching and fighting and helping and giving and filling holes in others' lives with pieces of himself until there's nothing left. Until he comes back again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post series, so spoilers. Part of the Tides 'verse. Takes place sometime after "Mountains." Originally posted to my LJ 12 May 2004.

Bleeding remnants of the sunset spill over the horizon and into the valley. Oz takes another pull from his beer and hands the bottle silently to Xander. The colors seep across the sky, stealing the light from below. The winds, as is their habit, pick up at the turning of the day, swirling the leaves before letting them sleep for the night. Oz shivers at the cold puffs skittering across his skin. Xander lays an arm across his shoulder, tugs him closer.

"So, tomorrow. . ." Xander says.

Oz nods. Waits. In the morning Xander will go back down the mountain, back to the good fight. Healed and hale and healthy as Oz and the empty sky and clear water and dancing stars can make him. Back to watching and fighting and helping and giving and filling holes in others' lives with pieces of himself until there's nothing left.

Until he comes back again.

With a sigh, Xander lays his head on Oz's shoulder. Shivers a little himself. "No sense in asking, is there?"

"No." Oz won't leave the mountain. And Xander knows this already, understands, and really wouldn't change it.

Xander sets the beer down, pulls Oz closer. "I'd stay if I could," he says as quiet as the first houselights appearing below them.

Again Oz nods. Then he twists his head, kisses Xander's hair softly, benediction, sacrament. Curse.

The sky above them darkens, night pulling its cover over the earth. Changing of the guard, as eternal as the tides.

Eventually they stumble back to the smithy and chase the warmth of skin and sweat. Kisses with tongue and teeth and denied despair are passed as casually between them as the beer bottle had been. Xander rolls to his back, opens for Oz, empty hole and overfull eye caressing Oz's skin and face as sure as callused hands. Then it's home, Oz thrusting into warmth as certain and constant as the winds, pillowed by need and blanketed by stars. Joy sweeps up between them, a promise and a litany and a curse as well. The room spins with passion that they ride beyond the cold night sky and into each other, once again.

Dawn comes with grey clouds and silent eyes, watching, waiting. . .

Then leaving, once again.


	6. Feast and Famine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are times, now, when Xander grows quiet that don't worry Oz. Like when he sharpens the blade Oz made for him, the whet stone droning out a steady chant. Or on the rare warm afternoons when the wind has died down enough to make sunbathing possible and Xander toasts his skin to a golden-honey color. Those times Xander is quiet as well, drifting like the ever present clouds.
> 
> This silence is full of shattered iron and broken stakes, though, tears never ghosting skin but drowning hearts instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post series so spoilers. Takes place in the Tides 'verse, could be anytime. Originally posted to my LJ 29 November, 2004.

It's the first time they're together during Thanksgiving. Oz isn't much of a traditionalist--and from what he knows of Xander's past, there aren't many family traditions that he'd like to carry forward. Besides, Oz has always been more of a "roll your own" sort of guy: take what you need, what has meaning for you, leave the rest.

Turkey though--he figures that's a given. As well as mashed potatoes, skins still on, of course. And yams with marsh mellows. Xander hasn't lost his sweet tooth.

But when Oz mentions his plans for a feast on their weekly drive out of the mountains and into town, Xander gets . . . quiet.

There are times, now, when Xander grows quiet that don't worry Oz. Like when he sharpens the blade Oz made for him, the whet stone droning out a steady chant. Or on the rare warm afternoons when the wind has died down enough to make sunbathing possible and Xander toasts his skin to a golden-honey color. Those times Xander is quiet as well, drifting like the ever present clouds.

This silence is full of shattered iron and broken stakes, though, tears never ghosting skin but drowning hearts instead.

"What's up?" Oz asks.

Xander just shakes his head and stares out the window.

The question continues to bounce around the enclosed truck cab like thunder between two peaks, rolling and echoing, never answered and never ending.

Once at the store Oz pulls out their list. He performs the usual ritual of tearing the paper in half, but doesn't get even a smile for his effort. Generally they make the weekly chore of shopping part treasure hunt, part race: each trying to see who can get all their items and checkout first.

Xander takes his half and nods grimly at Oz. Then he snags a cart and marches off. Oz flinches at the stiffness in Xander's shoulders, the fierce pace he's set himself. He should be helping Xander heal, damn it, not causing him more pain.

But the silence continues as they load the their haul into the truck bed. Oz doesn't ask for the traditional victory mug of carrot-lemongrass-ginger juice (though Xander found all his items first, Oz's checkout line was quicker.) He's hopeful, though, when Xander gets back in the passenger seat. Generally they split chores like driving as well, so maybe this means Xander is ready to talk.

He fiddles with the radio when they first get in, settling finally on something country and quiet.

"Why do you think there aren't any Thanksgiving songs?" Xander finally asks.

"Maybe they figured people would be too stuffed to want to sing."

Something eases through the silence, like a single sunbeam breaking through a winter-grey sky-not enough to warm you, but maybe enough to light your trail.

"We don't have to celebrate, you know," Oz says.

The quiet melts a little more when Xander shakes his head, then flashes Oz a quick smile. Oz turns onto the Interstate, piles of grey snow demarking the grey pavement.

It isn't until they hit the first county road that Xander says, "It was his favorite holiday."

Oz nods and waits.

"All that food and you didn't have to buy any presents. That was the problem with Christmas, according to Jesse. It wasn't that he didn't like presents, but buying them was always a pain. Thanksgiving was a guilt-free holiday."

Oz had heard stories of Jesse before, another of the ones who hadn't made it.

"Jesse was just a bottomless pit like me--hell, like all teenaged boys. Impossible to feel really full, you know?"

Xander is silent for another moment. "Jesse always wanted more."

More what? Oz wants to ask. More Xander? More sweet boy kisses that Xander has never told him about but Oz figures happened sometime? More of the heart and heat and goodness that Xander offers to everyone?

"We can just freeze this stuff, not have it now," Oz offers again, trying to give Xander a way out of the forest of the dead that he's wandering through.

"Just promise me we'll only do the eating, not the thanking stuff. Let's keep this guilt-free."

"Okay," Oz readily agrees.

"Too easy to want more."

Oz nods, and lets the silence grow again. He knows about want, about hunger. Some nights when the sky is empty and the snow and cold seem to suck out all the air and it's hard to breathe and the wind just wants to dance with you, pushing you this way and that, it's all he can do to not run. Change and let the stars be his trail, race until he's flying with paws breaking ice and leaping over boundaries caused by shadows and hills. He shudders and pulls his attention back to the road, the closed-in spaces and hard paths laid by men.

"Thanks," Xander says as they finally reach the smithy.

"Sure," Oz says. "But you're still peeling the yams."

Xander grins at him and the last of the clouds between them melt away. He reaches over and hauls Oz in for a kiss that is sweet and warm. There's hunger there too, and promises of love that Oz ignores, as always.

It's just too easy to want more.

{end}


End file.
